Chopsueycide, a recipe for disaster.
Content Note: Harmful responses to vulnerability; suicidal ideation; metaphorical violence. This piece may be distressing for readers with lived experience of mental health crisis or suicide.
Chopsueycide—
they’re gathering for the feast this time.
Last time,
it was a roasting.
Chopsueycide—
with taro and coconut,
a scream of acquired taste—
guaranteed to raise temperatures
but not pulses.
Chopsueycide—
add ginger to blow your head off.
Garlic—
the last breath—
will keep them away for sure.
Onions will make them
cry,
cry,
cry…
But those damn useless,
good for nothing
CARROTS
will NOT
make anyone
see any better.
Chopsueycide—
they ensure the scissors are sharp
to cut the tendon
like vermin celli,
down to bite size—
butcher knives slicing
body parts
and backbone.
Chopsueycide—
their words blunt,
thug heavy,
like the mallet
that pulverised dead flesh
now simmering,
stewing
in dark soy sauce.
Chopsueycide—
finished with a side of humble pie,
a sweet stench of unsuccessfulness,
suffocated in whippings
of garrotted cream,
garnished
with sour grapes.
Chopsueycide—
a popular dish,
best served cold.
Chopsueycide.
A recipe for disaster.
